Q: Any thoughts, fans of Werckmeister Harmonies? Anyone have a similar experience?
A: here
Ok, I was not alone on that one.
Thank you very much Robert.
If anyone has similar feelings go to the linked thread above. Robert’s posts are particularly enlightening
I find some of his posts in that thread [b]literally critically myopic[/b].
I’ll need to see the film again to write a better defense of it. From what I recall watching it over a year ago, the whale didn’t just have a metaphorical purpose. It was a prop to create a circus attraction as a thinly veiled way to assemble people together to prod them to violent uprising. Everybody heard of these people going around doing this and still said “You have to see the whale!” They accepted the necessity to see the whale even knowing the meaninglessness and hidden motives behind it.
The film creates a sense of movement toward an inevitable conclusion, and that the crowd will move toward the conclusion intentionally and logiclessly, which creates the bleak feeling of looming demise Eastern European countries felt during the world wars.
I don’t see why subplots need necessarily be completed, other than for the normal purpose to create the sense of closure which is something Tarr has no interest in. A film doesn’t need to get a good grade in cinema class to be a success.
@Michael Convery
Absolutely one of the most confusing films ever made, imo.
I think Jirin summed up how it could be so popular.
Basically I hate Tarr very much, but I do admire his cinematography. Damnation and Satantango are very good films, part from being absolutely stunning and inspiring visually they’re also atmospheric. But Werckmeister is a tedious film. Same with Turin Horse. Tarr is a tedious director with a visually mindblowing vision. And he misread Nietzsche.
@Michael,
FWIW, imo, Uncle Gyorgy’s monologue (where he talks about Werckmeister’s harmony) is the key to understanding the film (at least, my understanding of the monologue was critical for my interpretation and understanding of the film.) I’d recommend transcribing the monologue, but if you’re not interested in doing that, here it is:
“I have to make it clear that not even for a moment is there a doubt that it is not a technical but a philosophical question. So that the tonal system in question through researches, has lead to us inevitably to a test of faith, in which we ask: on what do we base our belief that this harmony, the core of every masterpiece, referring to its own irrevocability, actually exists or not. From this it follows, that we should speak of, not research into music, but a unique realization of non-music which for centuries has been covered up and a dreadful scandal which we should disclose. Hence the shameful situation that all the intervals in the masterpieces of many centuries are false. Which means that music and its harmony and echo, its unsurpassable enchantment is entirely based on a false foundation. Yes, we have to speak of an indisputable deception, even if those who are less sure, a little moderate, babble on about compromise. But what kind of compromise, when for the majority pure musical tonality is simply illusion, and truly pure musical intervals do not exist. Here we have to acknowledge the fact that there were ages more fortunate than ours, those of Pythagoras and Aristoxenes, when our forefathers were satisfied with the fact that their purely tuned instruments were played in only some tones, because they were not troubled by doubts, for they knew that heavenly harmonies were the province of the gods. Later, all this was not enough, unhinged arrogance wished to take possession of all the harmonies of the gods. And it was done in its own way, technicians were charged with the solution, a Praetorius, a Salinas, and finally an Andreas Werckmeister who resolved the difficulty by dividing the octave of the harmony of the gods, the twelve half-tones, into twelve equal parts. Of two semi-tones he falsified one, instead of ten black keys, five were used and that sealed the position. We have to turn on this development of tuning instruments, the so-called constant tempered, and its sad history and bring back the naturally tuned instrument. Carefully, we have to correct Werckmeister’s mistakes. We have to concern ourselves with the seven notes of the scale but not as of the octave, but seven distinct and independent qualities like seven fraternal stars in the heavens. What we have to do then, if we are aware, is that this natural tuning has its limits and it is a somewhat worrisome limit that definitely excludes the use of certain higher signatures.”*
If anyone is interested, I’d love to discuss this and see how it relates to the entire film as a whole.
Is this the right place to ask where is the best place to start with Tarr?
I’ve never seen any of his movies. My tastes, combined with all the reasons that everyone seems to love him, cause me to suspect that I won’t care for him at all. But I’m willing to try. My video store has Satantango, Werckmeister Harmonies, The Prefab People, Damnation, and one or two others that I can’t remember off hand.
I’m guessing you won’t care for him, Nathan, but Werckmeister Harmonies is the only place to start (confessions of a non-Tarr fan)
Nathan – I’ve only seen The Man From London and Werckmeister. I saw The Man From London first and much prefer it. I just didn’t understand Werckmeister at all. With The Man From London, I could appreciate the filmmaking, the cinematography, all that. It’s such a gorgeous looking film. Plus, it’s got Tilda.
But yeah, my guess is that you probably won’t think much of him, no matter what you start with.
@Nathan
I agree with Jerry and Santino—specifically the style of filmmaking isn’t the type that I see you enjoying. Having said that, if you read the film in the same way I do, I think you might find it interesting. I must say that I didn’t really enjoy watching this film—especially since I really didn’t fully understand it. But after processing the film, I think it’s one of the better films of the decade.
@ Nathan
Almanac of Fall is a similar to Bergman’s chamber films. The entire film takes place in a large apartment of an old woman, and her guests (her son, a teacher that loves her, a woman and her boyfriend) all want her money and they will not leave. Unlike his later more famous films, Almanac is in color, beautiful color. Every room has a certain hue, as do the characters, but I forget if they change overtime. Light blues, oranges, and greens will float in one frame like the aurora borealis. It’s as if he knew he wouldn’t use full color again and wanted to make up for it.
Damnation was his next film, and the one where he started his signature black and white style. It’s a brooding film about a pathetic man chasing the woman he loves but then realizing, at least how i interpret it, that he can’t be loved, and he might not even be able to truly love anyone either. It’s a slow process of dehumanization. Tarr’s Notes From the Underground.
by
Elmre Caglayan
Examining contemporary art house cinema, critics have recognized a wave of films that react against the dominant conventions and norms of mainstream culture. Most famously termed as ‘Slow Cinema’ by Jonathan Romney, these films emerged in diverse national cinemas and attracted many viewers with the rise of film festival networks, funding schemes, and digital technologies affecting alternative production and distribution strategies. (1) Commonly featuring daily lives represented through long takes and the elision of dramatic events in favour of simple action and atmosphere, these projects offer, above all, an expanded experience of duration on screen and a contemplative engagement with the profilmic space. One of the leading filmmakers of this wave is the Hungarian director Bela Tarr, whose seven-hour long epic Satantango (1994) was long praised by intellectuals such as Susan Sontag and Jonathan Rosenbaum. (2) However, Werckmeister Harmonies (2000) marked an international breakout for Tarr, following its long tour of well-respected film festivals including Toronto, Berlin and New York. The film became a blueprint for Slow Cinema and was retrospectively selected as one of the thirty defining films of the 21st century cinema by Sight and Sound, which has since placed Tarr and Slow Cinema into the centre of scholarly attention. (3)
The highlight of Werckmeister Harmonies is its measured and laconic approach to its narrative subject. As paradoxical as it may sound, the film depicts a catastrophe by not showing its exhaustive action. What is special about Werckmeister Harmonies is that its apocalyptic mood is not conveyed through familiar images of a devastating catastrophe sweeping through the ruins of a modern metropolitan city. Instead, Tarr portrays an enigmatic setting that represents humanity’s metaphysical dead-end. Filmed in various towns located throughout the iconic Hungarian Plains, Werckmeister Harmonies epitomizes Tarr’s disbelief in human nature and uses filmic space, time and movement not as subordinate elements to the narrative, but on the contrary, as the means to convey and shape it. Tarr breaks away from the conventional use of the long take and elaborates on duration and camera- work in a manner that is reminiscent of the modernist film- making that manifested itself during the 1960s. Governed by this modernist tendency, the film achieves a new form of engagement by avoiding the traditional commitments to narrative clarity, cause-effect linkage and characterization. The suppression of the narrative in favour of style leads to a dynamic, triangular relationship between the camera, the protagonist and the spectator, which provides the basis of our unique and contemplative engagement with the film’s catastrophic atmosphere.
Werckmeister Harmonies is the outcome of the ongoing collaboration between Bela Tarr and writer Laszlo Krasznahorkai and is adapted from the central chapter of the latter’s novel, Melancholy of Resistance.4 The story involves a town descending into madness, witnessed by the local newspaperman Janos/Lars Rudolph. In addition to his tedious job, Janos takes care of the eccentric Mr Eszter/Peter Fitz, an intellectual obsessed with Andreas Werckmeister and his music theory.5 While attending to his routine duties, |anos becomes aware of a certain rumour regarding a circus arriving to the town, which will supposedly exhibit a giant carcass of a whale and include a freak show starring ‘The Prince’, a mysterious and grim figure. The townspeople become agitated with the ill-conceived circus and gather around the town square to voice their protest and anger. While this unexplained rage goes slowly out of control, Aunt Tunde/Hanna Schygulla visits Janos to reveal her intentions of taking advantage of this situation. Following a revolt where the angry mob storms the local hospital, Tunde sets up a sort of military dictatorship with the aid of a high-ranking military officer. Janos attempts an escape to no avail and finds himself in an asylum-like hospital, where Mr Eszter tells him how the new order is working. In the final scene, Eszter visits the whale, quietly sitting in the town square, its inscrutable glass eye bleached by light.
The catastrophe is left unidentified. The film presents us with a bleak vision of humanity that is indicative of post-apocalyptic iconography: stark black and white photography, tanks roaming in the streets, an extreme climate, unidentified characters and obscure events. However, contrary to the generic features of a disaster film, Tarr downplays narrative action into events leading nowhere. There’s no narrative resolution, nor any causal links between events that take place. Why does the mob storm the hospital? Why do they stop? What affect does the Prince exactly radiate? How does the whale fit in this story? What benefit does Tunde and the military officers retain out of this situation? As much as we see on-screen, there’s a great deal of information left either unexplained or off-screen. We cannot logically link the cause-effect chain in many cases simply because Tarromits valuable and vital information from the story. We are shown large gaps of silence, a lot of walking, obscure dialogues, as opposed to motivations behind the events or any form of explanation. In other words, the narrative is suppressed in favour of mood and atmosphere. But how does the film let us engage with it? What alternative devices fill in for the lack of narrative complexity?
Even though the themes of catastrophe and disaster are apparent in Werckmeister Harmonies, there is a tendency to eschew narrative action through an overt use of spatial narration. In the first scene and throughout the film, the spaces, places, faces and objects are continuously foregrounded against the narrative. Tarr focuses on objects and spaces that seem to be irrelevant to the narrative causality, which would normally motivate a conventional narration. Examples are the burning stove in the beer house and the suddenly appearing lamp, which Tarr prefers to linger on while it obscures the continuity of the scene. David Bordwell and Kristin Thompson have argued that in the films of Yasujiro Ozu, spaces are foregrounded and are independent to the narrative to an unusual extent. The presentation of independent spaces and objects disrupt the spatial continuity and intervene in the cause-effect chain. The stylistic elements to produce such an effect, Bordwell and Thompson suggest, are cutaways, transitions, colour and focus.6 In many ways, Ozu’s playful approach to editing is key to his attempt to subvert cinematic conventions. He largely ignores the 180 degree rule and deliberately excludes establishing shots to disorient his viewers, destabilize the narrative flow and reflect on cinematic style, common tendencies found with- in modernist film aesthetics.
Tarr, on the other hand, produces a similar effect by utilizing the long take. Tarr’s film does not involve any abrupt transitions or cutaways; in fact there are very few cuts in the film. Werckmeister Harmonies consists of 39 shots (including the credits) averaging about 3.7 minutes, spread over 34 scenes. Most scenes, except three odd ones, are made up of single long takes, shot in a plan-sequence manner. Bordwell comments on this stylization: “the long take makes a stylistic unit (a shot) also a syuzhet unit (a scene), there is an unusually tight connection between narrative comprehension and spatial perception.”7 Bordwell proposes that this is not only a matter of form matching content. Basically the transformation of the real time of the plot into filmic time in an equal manner, as opposed to condensing time into a shortened version, implies the unfolding of the narrative visually through the filmic space. In this respect, our understanding of the story lies with the cues represented to us throughout the spaces, and is dependent on our perception of these cues, which is influenced by the way in which the director constructs them.
In Werckmeister Harmonies, we can argue that the suppression of the narrative is substituted for a deeper perception of spatial dimensions within the film. But, how does Tarr’s use of the long take differ from others? Throughout his filmography, there is an obsessive interest in miseenscene, framing, movement and an expanded sense of duration. I will argue that his unusual emphasis on camera and figure movement, framing and duration are key to his foregrounding of space and atmosphere. Each of these elements have their own unique effects upon the spectators, but commonly all of them influence our active engagement with the filmic space present in the image.
Mise-en-scene and Objective Correlative
Firstly, we should make a note on how Tarr uses specific locations and places to produce meanings. Tarr’s treatment of the landscape, space and the built environment is similar to Michelangelo Antonioni’s in regards to the technique called “landscape-as-state-of-soul,” about which Seymour Chatman writes that “the settings represent characters’ states of mind.”8 Chatman suggests that the spaces in Antonioni’s films serve a san objective correlative in T.S. Eliot’s sense: “a set of objects, a situation, a chain of events which shall be the formula of that particular emotion; such that when the external facts, which must terminate in sensory experience, are given, the emotion is immediately evoked.”9 This refers to a narration that bases its storytelling on the surface, or the appearance of things through metonyms, rather than relying on metaphorical interpretations. In this sense, objects, places, events, or anything that bears a physical existence may become a reflection of the character or theme it is associated with. Chatman provides a plethora of examples ranging from objects to spatial elements for the objective correlative stemming from Antonioni’s filmography. For instance, in L’Avventura (1960), Sandro and Claudia come across a deserted town while looking for their friend Anna. The town was built during the Fascist period as one of the community projects but it never appealed to the people for its association with the totalitarian regime.10 According to Chatman, the town not only documents the “disaster of Fascist architecture and planning,” but also proves that “bad architecture is simply one visible, concrete manifestation of the malattia dei sentimenti [malady of emotional life: the existential anxiety that Antonioni refers to in his interviews and speeches].”11 The alienation of the characters is matched by the town’s physical state: empty, abandoned and forgotten. The correlation between the characters and the setting strengthens when Claudia asserts her inability to cope with the silence of the town and the couple decide to leave, showing their failure to connect even with a ghost town.
Tarr treats his settings in a similar manner, albeit with a different attitude and intention. He notes that one of his working methods includes gathering “impressions” from the settings before starting to shoot, impressions which have an enormous influence over his stylistic decisions.]2 Therefore, it is safe to say that his landscapes are more than backgrounds and they constitute a significant part of the overall film. For example, it is impossible to think of Werckmeister Harmonies without considering its desolate landscapes or rundown buildings as well as its dark, cold and muddy streets. However, it is not clear to what extent these settings provide mentalscapes for his characters. Contrary to Antonioni’s character-oriented narratives, Tarr does not intend for cinematic characterization, but uses the setting to create a unique cinematic atmosphere. Furthermore, Antonioni’s use of setting as a critique of urban modernity and alienation provides a strict contrast in attitude against Tarr’s portrayal of existential anxiety in a much more rural, local and philosophical context.
The depiction of the town square in Werckmeister Harmonies is a good example to demonstrate how Tarr uses the objective correlative to create an in depth and meticulous atmosphere. We see the town square four times and its portrayal gradually changes between each long take. In the first one, Tarr depicts the square in a manner to arouse curiosity as the camera follows Janos walking through groups of people standing on the square. The hazy fog in the background and the eerie silence of dusk fuels our curiosity until the circus begins its operation. In the second scene, however, the depiction is slightly different. Kovacs writes; “Tarr for the first time depicts the crowd assembling on the square not with the social empathy characteristic of him, but as a terrifying, murderous mob.” (13) The square is now presented not as a social gathering space as usually depicted in the Western world, but rather a space of spectacle, protest and danger. Indistinguishable chatter and background noise replace the silence while the hazy fog slowly turns into smoke coming from bonfires. The uncertainty surrounding the square is escalated in the third take, portrayed during the night, as the bonfires become more visible and the crowds become more and more agitated. In the fourth depiction, also the final scene of the film, Tarr portrays the square with Mr Eszter looking at the aftermath of the events as the debris from the revolt covers the square. All seems to be lost, except for the absurd placement of the giant whale carcass in the centre of the square, which prepares the spectator and Mr Eszter towards an ambiguous closure.
A similar narration occurs during the portrayal of The Prince. The way the spectator encounters The Prince is through Janos, who breaks into the van and eavesdrops on the conversation between The Prince, his interpreter and the circus owner. The Prince is nothing but a shadow to us; he exists in relation to his surroundings and literally exists on the surface of a wall, while his aggressive monologue drives the masses to destroy order and unleash chaos. The prophet-like quality of The Prince is represented through a spatial narration in the aftermath of the revolt; the camera depicts the ceiling of a building from a low angle, slowly revolving around its own axis and ascending on the vertical axis, therefore portraying the interiors of the building and eventually finding Janos reading a notebook. The image of the building in the beginning is suggestive of a church or a temple: the glass ceilings, the wooden stairways and archways turn into concrete walls and steel columns as the image descends within the building, and we realize the building is nothing but a plundered white furniture store. The sound in the beginning of the shot also evokes religious connotations: the echoing sounds are reminiscent of a priest recounting some hymns until we realize that it is Janos whispering the horrible acts written in the notebook. Through a combination of camera movement, sound and off-screen space, Tarr creates a moment of false expectation, or realisation, which functions as a visual due to The Prince’s character. The scene conveys the nature and essence of The Prince, as he may appear holy, but is in contrast destructive.
Apart from these individual spaces that bear specific meanings, there are other spaces that appear very frequently and play a significant role in the narration process. Statistically speaking, the most frequently appearing spaces are streets, which make up about 11 scenes within the film and should, presumably, play a significant role in establishing the spectator’s grasp of the narrative. These scenes are generally shorter in duration, and are placed for the sake of connecting interiors and exteriors as they similarly function in city planning. In other words, they exist to maintain a logical spatial continuity. However, there is a common activity in all of these scenes that is given a particular attention throughout the film.
Werckmeister Harmonies is a film about a man, Janos, walking, observing and witnessing. In an interview, Tarr was asked whether the film is an allegory of Hungary’s totalitarian history or an elaborate depiction of man’s descent into existential terror. His reply was: “I just wanted to make a movie about this guy who is walking up and down the village and has seen this whale.” (14) A particular interest in walking and seeing has been part of the film since its inception. All characters walk; there are no cars, except a burned-out one in Tunde’s yard, and all the vehicles (with the exception of the helicopter) turn out to be moving at walking speed (such as the circus van). The act of walking and observing a social event in an urban context would immediately bring to mind the notion of the flanerie. Literally meaning, “to stroll” or “strolling”, this French term came into close scrutiny when the poet Baudelaire developed the term into a concept in which the act of strolling became an instrument of experiencing the 19th century modern city, in his case, Paris. Flanerie is a specific mode of strolling, in which the flaneur exercises a spatial practice, observing the interior and/or exterior public spaces of a city or reading the population and its social texts. (15) Furthermore, the term has connotations regarding a particular identity: it is discerned as “a native becoming a foreigner,” (16) through beholding “the gaze of the alienated man.” (17) Through the writings of Walter Benjamin, the practice of flanerie came to be associated with modernity, an experience of the present moment as of the early 20th century context. Flanerie became a way of distancing one from his/herself and was associated with observing and witnessing, in other words, it is the way in which modern man/woman contemplates his/her environment and nature.
In this sense, we might designate Janos as an archetypical flaneur: Janos does the strolling throughout the film; Janos is always present, observing, witnessing and gazing upon the events; the spectator ‘reads’ the film through the experience of accompanying Janos. Walter Benjamin once commented that “the social foundation of flanerie is journalism”, thus Janos’ profession as a newspaperman comes to signify an important aspect. (18) While the camera is travelling through the desolate spaces in the film, we are following Janos and are guided by his trajectory. Apart from the spectator’s identification with Janos, there are other reasons as to why we can recognize him as a flaneur.
Janos is characterized as a stereotypical ‘village idiot’. The reasons for this begin with the casting of Lars Rudolf in the role. The German actor had played similar roles earlier, in which he portrayed characters that are outsiders to the society, often because they are mentally disturbed. (19) Tarr notes in an interview that meeting Rudolph was an inspiration for him to shoot the novel, he had finally found “his Janos.” (20) Perhaps Tarr saw that Rudolph’s uneasy appearance and his eccentric wide eyes would be very useful in translating some essential personal traits of Janos out of the book and into the film. In addition, Rudolph is particularly skilful in his manner of speech; that is, his calm and soft voice amplifies his character. Even though he is dubbed into Hungarian in Werckmeister Harmonies, we never seem to find his voice unnatural.
The other reason why the Janos character can be considered a village idiot is apparent in the reviews written upon the film’s reception. Written by different authors, Janos is described as a “holy idiot,” (21) “wise fool” (22) and “a Dostoyevskian holy fool.” (23) This message is very implicit in the film, but the observations are in accord with the way in which the character in the novel is portrayed. Krasznahorkai introduces Janos as “terminally lunatic”, and characterizes him as a drifting outcast. (24) A typical village idiot is also an outsider to the society and often embodies a certain social position, especially in literature. Because the village idiot is an outsider, he/she embodies a distanced but critical approach towards society, often questioning its moral foundation. Through the social positioning of the village idiot it is likely to propose that there is a significant parallel between Janos as the village idiot and Janos as the flaneur.
The important aspect of identifying Janos as a flaneur relies on his social position as opposed to his social class. When Baudelaire and Benjamin wrote about the flaneur, they employed the term to associate it with the bourgeoisie, a kind of social class that normally would not be associated with a character like Janos. Establishing Janos both as a village idiot and an outsider enables him to scrutinize the foundations of society, a task that Baudelaire and Benjamin attempted to emphasize throughout their writings. This aspect of Janos is evident during the scene where he wanders through the town square for the first time, walks past the groups of people and turns his head to investigate the facial expressions of the people. His curious gaze, however, is never returned. Janos is the only one looking. As a matter of fact, some people become very hostile to Janos later in the film. He simply becomes an alien to them, perhaps due to his persistent curiosity. In many ways, this situation entitles Janos to be a flaneur, namely the beholder with the alienated gaze.
However, I will suggest that there is another subject that could more aptly be identified as the flaneur. Walter Benjamin claimed, “The audience’s identification with the actor is really an identification with the camera.” (25) This is explained by the difference between a stage actor and a film actor: the engagement with the stage actor is direct, unfiltered, while the audience in film engages with the film actor through the camera. In a way the camera influences the way in which we see the actors, depending on angles, editing and movement. Following this suggestion, I propose that the spectator’s identification and engagement with the narrative is not only through Janos, but also through the camera’s unique state in its own right. The subject that strolls through the street, is omnipresent, and has an undisputed control over the narrative, is the camera. The camera acts like a flaneur: its continuous movement over space imitates that of strolling to an autonomous degree. The spectator is moved by the camera, not by Janos. Janos simply becomes an accompanying partner; a second witness in the diegesis while the camera guides the spectator through it. This situation is evident in the hospital scene, where the camera slowly enters the building and depicts the mob storming the hospital and attacking the patients, and after a while returns to Janos’ gaze witnessing the horrible events. The scene is arranged in such a way that the sensation of walking inside the hospital and witnessing the events is evoked, and the spectators are returned to the narrative agent at the end. The scene is by no means a subjective, point of view shot of Janos, because he is spatially behind the walls in the scene, and his gaze is returned to the film’s spectator at the end of the sequence.
The triangular relationship between the camera, the flaneur and the spectator functions as a dynamic positioning of film spectatorship. In this sense, the spectator’s engagement with the subject matter occurs through a kind of dual flaneurs, both the camera and Janos acting in accordance with each other. It is as if the camera moves when Janos stops, and vice versa, therefore enabling the spectator to follow the constant movement through the filmic space. In short, the contemplation experience of the film transpires through a narration that emphasizes both the narrated and the narrator. The spectator may identify himself/herself with Janos through empathy and thereby the film experience is transformed into the gaze of the outsider. We tend to follow Janos through the mob in the square, vicariously occupying his gaze and contemplating the world around us/him. On the other hand, it is also the camera that possesses some sort of autonomy in the narrative through its endless movements, ceaselessly surveying the landscape. The camera movements are central to Tarr’s narration, but we can ascertain other aspects of filmmaking that may corroborate to the means of dynamic narration, such as framing and duration.
Through an obsessive use of framing and duration, Tarr efficiently transfigures the camera into an independent observer. His insistence on continuity “engages in a sort of magnification of the world” up to a point that it becomes an equivalent of looking, which “renders the miniature gigantic.” (26) The recording of the camera is matched with the spectator’s gaze, and at times runs parallel to Janos’s gaze, attaining the triangular relationship suggested earlier. In the carefully choreographed scenes, there is an attention to the details of the surroundings. This becomes evident in some scenes where Tarr tends to frame the event through doorways and/or corridors, a stylization that is reminiscent of directors like Fassbinder. These self-consciously arranged objects function as obstacles to the nature of seeing and tempts the spectator into a more meticulous inspection of the filmic space. The voyeuristic vision attained through framing is reinforced through the camera movements occurring in strolling speed, as these movements are not invisible to us. We are fully aware of the camera movement: whether it is a tracking shot or steadicam. However, this awareness does not alienate us. On the contrary, movement is one of the ways in which we can engage with the image on screen as our focus between the camera and Janos changes respectively. The effect of the image on the spectator becomes purely and essentially contemplative when the camera assumes the position of a flaneur.
An example of the observing nature of Tarr’s camera is apparent in two subsequent scenes. The first scene takes place in Tunde’s flat, where Janos visits her to show his and Mr Eszter’s support for her cause. We quickly realize that Janos has interrupted an awkward scene wherein a drunken military officer keeps Tunde occupied. Tarr conveys the scene through one shot where the camera is placed in the narrow corridor, in between two rooms, thus being able to frame both sides of the action. The space that Janos occupies is a well-lit kitchen while the army officer is ranting in the dim-lit bedroom. The conflict between the two is clear: the scene not only represents the clash between good and evil but also provides a situation where a private space has been breached. The army officer appears as an intruder and is separated from the space that Janos occupies. After Janos leaves, TCinde and the officer are shown through the doorway, which frames their image and space. The camera tracks backwards while both keep revolving around each other dancing to a symphonic military march. The music connects us to the next scene, where Janos visits the officer’s children after accepting the favour Tiinde has asked of him. This scene is played in a similar manner, a doorway separates the spaces that the actors occupy, but the tracking movement is the opposite. The camera zooms in towards the children while they keep dancing feverishly against the same symphonic military march.
What these two scenes have in common is the gradual abstraction of narrative action into frivolous events while forcing the spectator to keep looking. First of all, the plot is suppressed through asserting an interest in insignificant events, events that at times we never get the idea of what is really going on or why it is shown to us. In both scenes, Janos is present for a limited time and interacts with the other characters in the film up until the point where he leaves the scene. Following his exit, the camera continues to capture the scene through a corridor and a doorway respectively. Such division of filmic space through framing mimics the shot as a look and the pictorial composition formally embodies the alienated gaze of the flaneur. As if literally affirming the dynamic relationship between the dual flaneurs and the spectator, Tarr reiterates this motif in diverse forms.
The Long Take and Temps Mort
The camera, at certain moments, lingers on spaces, objects or situations for an unusual amount of time. In the scene where Mr Eszter and Janos leave the house following their surrender to Tiinde’s requests, the camera focuses on their faces and tracks their movement while they keep walking. In the first few seconds the characters discuss the whale, but after a few lines of dialogue they become silent, while the camera keeps pacing the same distance, following their footsteps. The silence and the camera’s tracking movement are maintained for an unexpected amount of time—about one minute. What takes place in this minute is not an event, nor anything that is substantially supporting the narrative, but is a moment of temps mort, literally, dead time. However, a conventional depiction of dead time would not allow for any subjects or characters within space. A rather traditional example of dead time would include, as in Antonioni’s images, portrayals of empty space, architectural figures or shapes, where human existence can only be traced, rather than represented.
Tarr, however, manages numerous times to linger on human faces to impose a similar effect. The first scene ends with a close-up of the bartender; the kitchen scene ends with the hotel porter and his mistress kissing each other; the hospital scene ends with Janos’s gaze; a repetition is made on the close-up of both Mr and Mrs Harrer’s faces right outside Janos’s home, and so on. Most of these scenes are, more or less, static images of human faces. On the other hand, the scene in which Mr Eszter and Janos walk is a scene with movement. What is unusual in this scene is not the extraordinarily long depiction of a seemingly irrelevant event, but rather the manner in which it is portrayed. This is where Tarr distinguishes himself from directors like Antonioni, who tend to portray dead time by a long or medium shot. In contrast, Tarr uses an extreme close-up; he fixes the two characters into the image and limits our perception of the spatial dynamics of the scene. Steven Marchant comments: “Held in close overlapping profile against a featureless background, the shot does not describe the passage of the pair from one place to another, but instead zeroes in on the movement of the various elements which internally compose the event: the shifting patterns given by the almost imperceptible position changes of their profiles set against the phased repetition of the tread and scuff on the soundtrack.” (27) There are several layers of stylistic devices at play here. Firstly, Tarr’s camera mimics the walking trajectory of his characters, while assuming the position of the flaneur. Secondly, the depiction involves a subtle exchange of looks between the characters, in addition to the spectator’s very similar involvement with the image, as we are fixed to images of facial expressions by an extreme close-up. Thirdly, speaking in terms of the scene’s narrative significance, we see nothing of dramatic importance, which leads us to question the mere existence of this scene, as something has to be of importance. As the tracking shot persists, we realize that it is the soundtrack itself, a subtle mix of wind, footsteps and the rhythmic noise caused by Mr Eszter thumping his lunch box. We come to notice that a conventional ‘track and walk’ scene is substituted for a tracking shot completely based on the repetition of movement and rhythm, image and sound.
Tarr constructs the long take as an experiential event insofar as the persistent scrutiny of the camera enforces a contemplative spectatorship. Duration becomes palpable especially in sequences described above, in which Marchant comments that “the shot […] does not evoke, describe, analyze or represent the event—the shot is the event.” (28) The long take undermines our conventional expectations of narrative and substitutes itself for ‘an open event’ which compels us to question the passing of time, as well as offering a realisation of the numerous stylistic manipulations that are abound in cinema. This Deleuzian ‘time-image’ offers us an opportunity to appreciate the beauty of the image itself as well as the wholeness of the reality represented in this image. In this respect, I disagree with Marchant’s argument in his otherwise excellent analysis, where he claims that there is no seer in Werckmeister Harmonies, because “it models the shot not as a look but as an event and with that implicitly rejects the redemptive possibilities contained within the neorealist inheritance.” (29) I believe that Werckmeister Harmonies prompts its spectator to look at things in their wholeness through its self-conscious narration, which consists of several stylistic tropes that I have argued above. Perhaps “To look at what?” would be a more fitting question, but Marchant quite rightly provides a significant clue that the film tries to deal with metaphysical notions of the void and nothingness, themes that provide the basis of the film’s pessimistic closure.
Much of the critical acclaim attributed to Werckmeister Harmonies relied on its rigorous and uncompromising use of the long take aesthetic. Tarr’s insistence on highlighting the spatial surroundings of the narrative, drawing on the observing nature of the camera and an unwillingness to succumb to an ordinarily paced editing defied the contemporary norms of commercial cinema, paving the way for other idiosyncratic directors such as Pedro Costa, Lisandro Alonso and Carlos Reygadas to come forward. Following Werckmeister Harmonies, the long take became a model for austerity; a building block for films that belonged to the Slow Cinema cycle. There were, of course, other parameters that had a strong influence over this recent phenomenon, such as the shift from analogue to digital in production circumstances enabling the long take to become much more accessible. In many ways, Slow Cinema is a nostalgic rebirth of 1960s art cinema, its auteur-oriented background and the cinephilia that was closely associated with it. As well as a romantic reaction against the death of celluloid, globalization, industrial consumption and Hollywood dominance, Slow Cinema has brought forward new dynamics of highbrow cultural practice. While the exhibition aspects of the films are exclusive to film festivals, their digital availability introduced them to an audience that was wider than ever imagined. The development of online communities made it easy for consumers to differentiate between highbrow and lowbrow films, triggering new forms of cinephilia. In other words, Slow Cinema is an anachronistic cycle. Even though it is very specific to the digital technologies available today, it evokes a strong sense of the past due to its relationship to modernist aesthetics and 1960s film culture.
Michael Convery is right. Almanac of Fall is going to be the best Tarr to start with for those whose primary frame of reference is the conventional 3-act narrative. Even then, it isn’t particularly accessible, but far better than starting with Werckmeister Harmonies.
I think going to the earlier works then working your way forward is best. Prefab People, The outsider and Family Nest seems to me, the most accessible for most. The best way is to keep watching and see his progression and the choices he makes.
Thanks to everyone for the recommendations.
I probably won’t dig into Tarr until later this year, because I’ve got other fish to fry right now, but I will keep the above advice in mind.
I don’t really care one way or the other about the strength of narrative, but I’m curious to know if there is a stylistic progression with Tarr. Which Tarr film is the most Tarrish? I’d like to start with a title that gives me the best possible sense of his strengths. The comparison of Almanac of Fall to a Bergman chamber drama doesn’t really entice me, because, well…if I want a Bergman chamber drama, I’ll watch a Bergman chamber drama.
@Tommy – So there is a stylistic progression?
To me, everything from Damnation on is what seems to be the stylistic accumulation of what Tarr set out to achieve. Everything before seems so radically different.
From Unspoken Cinema
Tarr Béla:
“It’s very difficult to talk about what we really think to be a film. The question really is what is film for? It’s a long time since we came to the conclusion that film is not about telling a story. It’s function is really something very different, something else. So we can understand everyday life. And that somehow we can understand human nature, why we are like we are.
“We believe that apart from the main protagonists in the film there are other protagonists: scenery, the weather, the time and locations have their faces and they are important, they play an important role in the story.
“From the very beginning the way we handled was probably different from other films. first of all because we cut and edited the film differently, most films are edited in the way pieces of information are edited, we didn’t do it that way. We are paying more attention to the internal psychological processes. And we concentrate on the personal existence and the personal presence of the actors and actresses. That is why meta-communication is that important, indeed is more important than the verbal communication. And from here it is only a short step to put it in time and space.
“[..] there is a huge difference between literature and film. They use two different languages. Writers have much wider opportunities in terms of writing hundreds of sentences and they can invoke feelings in a much more varied way. film in itself is quite a primitive language. It’s made simpler by it’s definiteness, by it’s being so concrete and that’s why it’s so exciting. It’s always a challenge to do something with this limited language. The writer Krasznahorkai always says :
‘How can you do anything with such limited options, with such limited tools?’
“He is exasperated by the fact that we, as he sees it, deal with such cheap things. film is a cheap show in the marketplace and it’s a great thing that we can develop that into something valuable.”
interview by Jonathan Romney
(National film theatre, London, 15 March 2001)
translated by Laszlo Hackenast.
Which Tarr film is the most Tarrish?
Satantango or The Turin Horse.
Hey Tommy who is Elmre Caglayan? is it supposed to be Emre Caglayan?
Bordwell on Jansco:Every critic who writes on a Jancso film is tempted to count the shots, plot the … between abnormally predictable and abnormally unpredictable stylistic …
the long take makes a stylistic unit (a shot) also a syuzhet unit (a scene), there is an unusually tight connection between narrative comprehension and spatial perception
Reading through that book chapter we get that unpredictable vs predictable are creating a tension. The Jansco film Bordwell is discussing has a very simple straight through narrative i.e. Fabula: Russian formalist term for the narrative events in causal chronological sequence. (Sometimes translated as “story.”) A construct of the spectator.
What Tarr did was take Jansco’s style, but not the simple straight through narrative. What Tarr achieves is something that pushes beyond story comprehension.
Oh yeah Robert, it’s supposed to be Emre. He’s a phd candidate in film studies at University of Kent. Specializes mostly in contemplative cinema.
heh I like how he brought in Baudelaire:
“Establishing Janos both as a village idiot and an outsider enables him to scrutinize the foundations of society, a task that Baudelaire and Benjamin attempted to emphasize throughout their writings…..The important aspect of identifying Janos as a flaneur relies on his social position as opposed to his social class. When Baudelaire and Benjamin wrote about the flaneur, they employed the term to associate it with the bourgeoisie, a kind of social class that normally would not be associated with a character like Janos.”
lol…..
I’ve just watched Satantango. Wow, that was a long haul, but worth it!
I noticed the Satantango’s style was closer to Damnation than Werckmeister Harmonies.
For those who’ve seen Turin Horse, is it more like Werckmeister Harmonies or Damnation and Satantango?
Turin Horse is probably his most refined film (as far as his philosophy on filmmaking), so it is hard to compare to the others. There is one musical theme, one main location, two main characters. It is him pared all the way down to essentials.
I haven’t seen Satantango yet (I know), but of the ones I’ve seen I’d agree with Jesse. I would also say that Turin Horse is more confrontational than the others.
Michael Convery
Before I watched it, Werckmeister Harmonies was one of those films that you haven’t seen yet, but everything you know about it tells you that you’re going to love it.
Unfortunately, this film was a misfire for me. I went into it having recently seen and loved Tarr’s Damnation and Almanac of Fall and was expecting something similar. It contains powerful moments, undeniably, but they don’t connect. It felt like a confused satirical allegory that was bloated to the point that its parts deformed and covered each other. A lot was there, yes, but so much more felt missing. (If you imagine the whale being stung to death by bees and swelling so much that you couldn’t see its eyes, then you have an exaggerated image of how this film felt to me)
Yet, for some reason I think I’m wrong. I’m not sure why, I just do.
It’s not because I’m a Tarr fan-boy desperately grasping at justifications. When I’m not a fan of a near-unanimously praised 5-star film I usually keep my conviction.
Any thoughts, fans of Werckmeister Harmonies?
Anyone have a similar experience?